


His World

by antediluvianevil



Series: Our Worlds [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Backstory, Elvhenan, Flashbacks, Gen, Young Fen'Harel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 10:17:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9651545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antediluvianevil/pseuds/antediluvianevil
Summary: He lies there, staring up into the dark ceiling of the tower. He listens to her snoring, to the crackling of the fire.He listens to the thoughts repeating themselves in his head. Every mistake. Every decision he has ever made.They haunt him, and he cannot sleep.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is technically meant to go along with my happy-ish AU fic, but it's not required or necessary at all to read or understand this story.
> 
> This fic will pretty much entirely take place in Elvhenan. Pay attention to the lack of Archive Warnings.

“Solas?”

He turned his head towards the doorway. The door was cracked open, and only Atisha’s head poked in. “Yes?”

“Are you not coming to bed?”

He smiled. “I am simply busy with painting right now.”

“Can I see it?”

He nodded and she stepped through the door, shutting it behind her before walking to him. She was dressed in nothing but her long nightgown, and he smiled when she took his hands. He wrapped his arms around her waist as she peered at his desk, looking at a rather shabby half-completed painting he started on wood. A break from trying to finish the fresco.

“It is nice. It’s . . . different than your other things.”

“Worse,” he mumbled, and she hit his chest, lightly.

“No! I just mean the style.” She ran her fingers along the dry paint, a black silhouette of a burning forest. “This seems more disorderly than your other paintings. Stylized. I like it.”

“Thank you,” he said, and she kissed his jaw.

“You alright?”

He wished not to lie, so he said nothing. She kissed him again. “Ma vhenan.”

He moved, taking her in his arms as he sat in his desk chair. She took advantage of being eye-level with him and started peppering his face with kisses in a somewhat bothersome manner — _ not bothersome. You are simply cranky. Do not hurt her feelings because you are cranky. _

“Solas?”

He hummed and looked at her.

“Am I annoying you?” she asked. She sounded so sad.

He shook his head. “You are fine, vhenan.”

“Do you want to go to bed? We can find each other in the Fade.”

He thought, staring at the painting. He could stay and brood, but the rotunda was cold, and somewhat loud considering the time of evening, thanks to the rookery above him. And she would there with him.

So he kissed her forehead and smiled at her.

“I think that sounds like a wonderful idea.”

She moved to stand up but he tightened his arms around her, pulling her back against him and kissing her lips. She was blushing when he looked at her face again, and he loved her so much. So he told her that. Her face lit up and she scrambled out of his lap before he could kiss her again. Taking his arm, she led him out of the rotunda and into the empty hall.

A small fire was lit in the fireplace and she quickly fell in her bed when they reached their room. He removed his tunic and footwraps before joining her, and she pulled him down into the warm silks. After a moment of awkward adjustments they could finally relax, and she played with his amulet that remained around his neck.

“Who gave it to you?” she asked, a whisper.

“Mythal. When she made me her right-hand.”

She hummed and kissed his cheek. “Do you miss her? The real her. Before . . . Flemeth and everything.”

“Yes, and no. When I first met her, she was kind, and truly cared about those under her rule. But power corrupted her, as it does everyone. She changed.” A pause. “She was cruel.”

She heard the sadness in his voice, and she moved, shifting him onto his back and brushing their lips together.

“I shouldn’t have asked.”

He ran his fingers through her hair. “No, vhenan. I told you before. You may ask me anything, and I will answer truthfully.”

She hummed in response and put her head on her chest, closing her eyes.

“Ar lath, ma vhenan,” she murmured.

“I love you, too.”

Within only a few minutes she was asleep, and he was left alone with his thoughts. His racing, torturous mind.

So he lay there, staring at the dark ceiling, listening to the crackling of the fire, to the sound of her snoring. To his thoughts that repeated themselves in his head. He remembered every mistake. Ever wrong decision.

He could not stop thinking of it.

 

“You cannot be seriously considering this, Elder,” he pleaded —implored, but his words went to deaf ears.

“We are weakening. Even you should see that.”

“Of course I do, but handing the town over to Mythal is not the way! She is a tyrant!”

“You have never met her, Pride, so keep your mouth shut.”

He turned back to Sorrow, who had yet to say anything, before looking back to the Elder. “Why do we not ask the eastern city-states for help?”

“They are on the brink of war, and would never consider pausing their bickering for five minutes to consider the fate of one small village. Our crops are failing and the animals are dying. Mythal offers us safety, protection, and supplies to last the winter.”

“She wishes to take the city-states! Taking our village puts her at a strategic advantage to do so.”

“The All-Mother is an excellent leader—”

“And also a false-god and a tyrant.” The elder scowled. “You are younger than me. You do not remember the war. You do not—”

“That is enough, Pride. I will not listen to your blasphemous paranoia.” The man’s head snapped to Sorrow. “You. Go to her land. She wished an audience, and the head of the guard should be the one to see what she offers. I have more than enough work to take care of here.”

Sorrow bowed his head. “Of course.”

“And take Pride with you. Maybe time outside the village will clear his head.”

He saw Sorrow hesitate before agreeing. “Anything else?”

“That is all. Leave by this evening.”

Sorrow bowed once more before leaving, taking his arm and forcing him to follow him out onto the street. The sky was overcast, and it looked as though it was going to rain soon.

“Pride, I think you take joy in annoying the Elder.”

“No. He is foolish and refuses to see reason.”

“What makes you think you’re so right?” Sorrow snapped, and he frowned.

“Because we were both young adults when the war between the People and the Spirits ended. We heard stories of the three generals.”

Sorrow said nothing.

“Forget it. It is pointless to argue.”

“Yes,” Sorrow agreed. “Should we just go now? I have nothing planned, and I imagine you want to just get this over with.”

He let his glare answer for him.

“Excellent. Let us go then. She was expecting the Elder today, but she has heard of me.”

“A city guard and his friend go off to sell their village into slavery,” he mumbled.

They started down the main stretch of road. “The people will not be enslaved to her. We will be forming an allegiance.”

“An allegiance with a false-god is not something I can openly endorse.”

“Well, we’re not asking you to endorse it, Pride. You are coming because the Elder does not want me to go alone, and your intuition is sharper than most.” A pause. “And I would rather have you with me than take a younger man who devoutly believes in Mythal’s claims of divinity.”

“Finally, a smart decision on your part.”

“Oh, eat shit.”

He chuckled. “In truth, I am . . . mostly fine with going. I have always been curious about—”

They both stopped and looked up. Two dragons soared high overhead, towards the northwest. They stared.

“What are those doing here? Shouldn’t the gods have control of the dragons?

“Those were not dragons,” he said. “Not true ones, at least.”

“I’m fairly sure those were dragons, Pride.”

He continued to stare. It was a dragon, but . . . Why would spirits wish to possess the body of a dragon?

Sorrow continued walking, and he quickly followed after.

 

They stepped through the final mirror in the Crossroads, and he had to stop in awe. The trees surrounding the palace weaved into the stone walls, growing on the individual bricks and going up, forming a green canopy as the roof. Murals made from golden tiles lined the walls, and formed intricate patterns on the floor. Sorrow seemed just as stunned as he, and they both stood there for several seconds, taking it all in.

They were in a large circular room, lined with looking-glasses. People passed through them, many of them barefaced, and many with tattoos covering their face, and sometimes body. His stomach turned at the sight. He never grew up with slaves, much less seen many.

“If you ever wish to come out of the forests and back to civilization, you must get used to the sight of blood-writing.”

“There is no excuse for it,” he hissed.

“Get used to it, Pride. The world has changed since we were first born. You can adapt, or enter eternal sleep.”

He said nothing and followed Sorrow as he started down the corridor. They obviously stood out, considering the glances from other people. Not that they were dressed shabbily, but the people in those gilded halls were dressed in layers upon layers of cottons and linens, adorned with jewels and embroidery. He recognized the symbolism in the clothing as they passed, designs based on the three gods. Leafy vines and branches for the All-Mother, thorned vines for The Spirit of Vengeance, and fire and intricate geometric shapes for The Hearthkeeper.

It would have been impressive, if all of the Pantheon were not slave drivers.

As they reached the end of the corridor, an enthusiastic woman approached them. Her black hair was lined with silver strikes, and red vallaslin covered her forehead, depicting symbols of The Spirit of Vengeance.

“Welcome to the All-Mother’s southern palace, my friends. I am acting as the usher for all of the Free-People that visit. How may I help you?”

“My name is Sorrow. My Elder was told by the All-Mother’s right hand that he was to have an audience with Her Divinity. However, the Elder is busy, and I come in his stead.”

“Okay, then I shall redirect you to Lorathen herself. Who is your companion, if I may ask?”

“My name is Pride,” he said.

She tilt her head. “Are you two spirits?”

“No,” Sorrow started. “Just traditional names.”

She hummed. “If you would follow me, I shall take you to the All-Mother’s right hand.”

They did. The first room they came to was a dining hall of some sort. Half of the room was currently being decorated, and slaves ran in and out, setting the dozens of tables in the hall. Spirits helped as well, but mostly in subtle ways, fixing misplaced items or catching dropped plates before they managed to shatter on the tiles.

They walked through into another corridor before taking a right, going down a circular staircase. They went down another story before they stopped. The usher put her hand to the door out of the stairwell, nullifying a ward that he did not even sense was there. They stepped through the archway and she turned back, closing the door and reinforcing the ward. They walked through a small hallway, only passing a few sentinel guards before coming to a gilded door, the silhouette of a forest carved into the wood.

She knocked gently, and after a minute the door opened. A short woman stood there, blonde hair pulled back into a disheveled bun. Her eyes were lined with tattoos of Mythal’s branches, and she was wearing white and silver armor. What he noticed was the circlet on her head. It was projecting power directly into her.

“Can I help you?”

“Lorethan, these two Free-People claim that you spoke to their Elder about an audience with the All-Mother.”

She looked up, glaring at them, but then she noticed his friend. “Sorrow, yes?”

He nodded. “Elder Felian is currently occupied by personal and business matters. I was sent in his stead.”

“Who is your companion?”

“Pride. A lifetime friend and inhabitant of the village.”

Lorethan hummed. “You may enter.”

She held the door open, and they both stepped into a small courtyard. Around a garden was a covered pathway, arches and railings lining around the courtyard. A large willow stood in the centre of the garden, casting a shadow on most of the green. A few spirits sat on its branches. Various flowers and vines were growing up it, and crystal graces covered the ground around the trunk, save for where a large stone desk was.

That was where she sat.

Long black hair draped over her shoulders, adorned with countless diamond and other decorations. She wore a modest dress that only left her ebony arms uncovered. Her eyes were white, and when she stared at him, he stopped in his tracks. She rose from her chair, adjusting her high collar and smoothing out her blue dress.

“Welcome to my palace, a place of peace.” She held out an arm, gesturing them to come forward.

They did. Sorrow bowed, and he bowed his head. Enough to show respect. Mythal waved her hand, and smiled. She was beautiful.

“You are?”

“My name is Sorrow.”

“I am Pride.”

She hummed and sat once more. He realized she was pregnant. “I apologize for the poor reception. I am very busy as of late. I’ve found as my land grows, I rely more on my Right and Left Hands to do work.”

“We appreciate the time, All-Mother.”

She rose her arm and with a flick of her wrist, two stone stools formed themselves behind them. “Please, sit. Would you like anything?”

“We do not wish to be a burden, Your Divinity.”

“It is no trouble at all,” she said and looked up to the tree where a spirit lay. “Vigilance, may you please bring our two guests refreshments? They have had a long journey.”

The spirit nodded, and vanished.

“I am surprised by the amount of spirits here, and how many natures can be found,” he said.

She hummed. “You are familiar with the ethereal people?”

He nodded. “Yes, Mythal—”

Oh. Sorrow scowled at him, and Mythal sat there, a skeptical look on her face. He was not even thinking.

“That is a name I have not heard for centuries. At what time were you born?”

He sighed. “I apologize. I was born around three moon-ages before the war ended.”

“And you?” she asked Sorrow.

“The same. We grew up together.”

“My, my. Regardless, we digress. How may I help you two?”

“Our Elder is Felian. He said there was talk of acquiring our land. I am here on his behalf.”

“Ah. Yes. I had heard of the blight from travellers. These are hard times for many people in the north. I have offered my aid to your neighbors to the east, but they are a proud, hardy people.”

“They are. But my elder has spoken his mind. He wishes to take your offer, if he approves of the terms.”

She smiled and nodded. “I can agree to that. In truth, we do not ask much in return. I want to unite the People. We have been feuding city-states for far too long.”

“Agreed.”

“While you will be giving your land to us, your people shall still be free. I will station a few of my own soldiers there, in protection against the recent surge of beasts, and you will be given supplies to last the village through the winter. All I ask is after this winter, and when the time for planting comes, you give one fifth of your crop. No more, no less. Your children will not be drafted, nor will blood writing be forced upon them. That, you have my word.”

“Your offer is very generous,” he mused, and Sorrow glared at him again. “May I ask what you gain from it?”

She did not hesitate to answer. “Land and influence. I have both my husband and The Hearthkeeper to compete with, Pride. Influence is a very powerful thing.” She grinned. “You do not trust me, do you?”

He said nothing, and Compassion returned. It handed Sorrow what appeared to be a fruit tea of some sort, and he was handed a small glass of wine.

“Thank you, friend.”

The spirit seemed to grin before it retreated again, going back up into the tree. 

“I do not wish to control your people. I wish to protect them.” She formed a small clump of ice in her hands and started bending its shape and playing with it. She never broke eye contact with him. “Might I ask what you two do? It is rare to speak to such experienced persons.”

“I am the head of the makeshift guard in our village. Sometimes the city-states give us trouble. I make sure they do not.”

“And you, Pride?”

He hesitated. “I . . . do not have a profession. I spend my time in the wilds.”

“Hermit?”

“Yes, I suppose. No religious purposes. I simply enjoy the quiet.”

“I can understand that. These are hectic times, not just for those under the Pantheon. ” She hummed, and the ice in her hand melted. “I can write a physical contract. He may bring me his response.”

“Thank you, Your Divinity.”

She rose from her seat. “I shall have a messenger bring it within the week. I thank you for considering my offer.”

“We thank you for offering,” Sorrow said as they both rose. Vigilance took their glasses away.

“I hate to have you two come all the way out here only to spend five minutes talking. Would you like to stay as guests for tonight’s dinner?”

“We appreciate the offer, but—”

“Pride!” a fourth voice said, and they all turned.

“Wisdom?” he said. What was it doing here?

“Pride and Sorrow, you must come!” she exclaimed and pulled on his sleeve. “Something is approaching your home! The guards are too weak, they will die!”

“What?”

“You must! It is a broken and shattered being. It will kill them all.”

He had never heard it act desperate. He looked at Sorrow, and at Mythal.

She bowed her head. “I believe you are needed elsewhere.”

They ran. The usher opened the door to the staircase for them and they dashed through the halls, running through the eluvian they entered with. They entered the crossroads, and pushed their ways pass the people traversing the paths.

“Pride, I am too slow. Go ahead of me.”

“Hurry,” he said, and shifted, landing on his paws.

He slipped through the crowd, sprinting down the floating walkways. When he reached the mirror he needed to, he shifted back and waved his hand, activating the looking-glass and stepping through it. It was drizzling now, and people were obviously in a state of alarm, but not panic.

Wisdom hovered behind him as he strode through the village. He opened the door to the Elder’s house, but he was gone. 

Wisdom pointed towards the north, and that was where he went. He left the village walls and walked down the path out of the village, towards the fields where an old watchtower sat. He reached the base of the tower and pulled himself onto the ladder, climbing up to the observatory. Two young scouts were there, and looked extremely relieved by his presence.

“What is it?”

“We don’t know, but all of the spirits are panicking. Even the old spirit of pride is acting disturbed.”

The other spoke. “There has been so many beasts, they must be artificial, or unnatural. Take the dragons, for example. There are too many now. The Pantheon should have control over the dragons, but they seem to be  _ everywhere _ .”

“I know,” he said and picked up the spare bow in the tower. “We should—”

The tower shook, and they all turned their eyes to the forest. Far off the trees were shifting, being moved, burning. It was approaching, quickly.

“You two. Get to the village and get everyone out.”

“But—”

“Now,” he snapped, and they left. Wisdom was still hovering behind him. “Go get Justice and the guards.”

It nodded and left. He climbed down from the watchtower and stood in the centre of the path. He formed an arrow made of ice in his hand and notched it on the bow. He raised the weapon, aiming it at the sky, towards the forest. Five seconds passed. He pulled the string back, and released.

It flew at an arc into the forests, and a roar tore through the countryside, loud enough to daze him. Justice and Wisdom quickly appeared at his side again, and the former carried an ethereal sword in its hands, pointing it towards the woods.

“The guards are busy forming a barrier around the village,” Vigilance said.

“Wisdom, you must go.”

“No,” it said.

The beast emerged from the trees, and he had to cover his mouth to suppress nausea.

It was physically dead, in all sense of the word. It was a large, lumbering creature, but its flesh consisted of burnt skin and charred metallic scales. It was an abomination of some kind, but no spirit would willingly kill its own host. It was burning itself alive and blood and molten flesh was left behind in its tracks.

His arrow was still in its back, and the enchanted arrow was slowly doing its job, covering and infesting the back of the creature with ice, but it did nothing it slow the beast.

“It is in pain,” Justice said, “both the animal and the spirit. They are forced together.”

“Is there any way to split them apart?”

“You lack the power,” Wisdom said.

The beast opened its maw, and he froze. Fire erupted from the creature’s mouth and roared towards him. It engulfed the fields, and he hesitated. No barrier he formed would be strong enough.

“Pride!”

Justice’s shout snapped him out of it and he shifted, gaining wings and soaring up into the air. Fire engulfed the countryside, and nearly touched the village’s walls before the flames stopped spreading. No abomination should have that kind of power. He flew down to the top of the watchtower, which was slowly starting to burn, and shifted back, grabbing his bow and forming another arrow.

He released it and it hit the beast’s neck. It let out a bellowing roar and charged, not at him, but towards the village.

_ No, no, no _ —

He shifted again and landed at the gate, losing his form as he touched the ground. Four guards were forming a barrier around the village, but he doubted it would be enough.

Justice stood behind him. “Pride, there is no way any of the people here could stand up to that thing.”

“I know,” he said and looked at the spirit, and then at Wisdom. “I have an idea, but I do not know if it will work.”

The demon charged, and collided with the barrier. It started cracking.

“What?”

“You two need to go, now.”

“But—”

The demon roared, and they all turned to it. Fire and magma spewed from its maw, and it stepped back, pulling its body back and opening its mouth further.

He shifted, taking a form and lunging at the beast. He tackled it and dug his teeth into its neck, causing it to shriek and attempt to pull back. It couldn’t. He dug his claws into the dirt and pulled the beast back towards the burning fields.

He always suspected he might have been able to take the form of a spirit, but he never would have attempted it.

It was unpleasant, to put it lightly.

He bit down harder and the beast roared as it attempted to flip back onto its legs. His grip failed for a moment, and the monster got traction on the dirt. He couldn’t overpower it.

He released its grip on its neck and jumped back. The taste of flesh was bitter on his tongue, and he could feel his mouth burning already from the contact.

And he despised his own form. This needed to end, quickly.

The beast stepped forward, teleporting only a foot away from him. 

Time seemingly slowed down. It was using tactics. It was using sophisticated, magic-requiring tactics.

It’s tusks dug into his ribcage and he unshifted, flying back against the dirt road. His fingers touched his chest. He would be dead within minutes.

What was it? No abomination would use that kind of tactic. Nothing related to rage, at least. He didn’t—

He rolled over and pushed himself up to his hands and knees. Blood poured from his wounds onto the ground, and he bit back a sob. The beast turned and headed back to the village, and there was nothing he could do. He attempted to seal the wound, but he was too exhausted to use proper healing.

So he burned the lacerations shut, and fell to the ground in shock from pain. He lay there, and saw out of the corner of his eye his village erupt in flames.

He remained unmoving for several seconds until he attempted to stand again. It hurt beyond belief. He managed to get to his feet and he truly looked at the town. Most of it was engulfed in fire, and he started walking towards it. He needed to do something. Anything.

He stumbled to his knees. His wounds were so poorly burned that one of them reopened simply from taking two steps. But he ignored the bleeding, and the pain, and stood up again. He walked to the burning gate, and stared into the chaos.

Smoke and burning flesh.

But then he saw something. Far down the road stood an entourage of sentinels. They all wore Mythal’s blood-writing.

He heard the beast cry out and it stumbled from a flaming alley onto the main stretch of road. A woman stood on its back, driving a long sabre through its neck.

It was the Right-Hand of Mythal.

The beast bucked her off and she landed only several feet away from him. Her sword was red from heat.

“What is this thing?” she asked, staring at him out the corner of her eye.

“An abomination.”

“It can’t be. It’s too strong.”

She adjusted her shoulder cloak and rose her sword towards the monster. 

“This needs to die. Now.”

Lorethan’s face paled when a small dove flew into view and approached them. A flash of light. Mythal stood there.

“You can shapeshift?” he muttered, and she looked back at him.

She  _ glared _ at him, and he didn’t know why.

In her hand she formed a whip of electricity and she slung it towards the beast. It wrapped around one of its tusks and she pulled, causing the beast to fall onto its side. She and Lorethan approached it, and he was left bleeding. He slumped to his knees.

The false-goddess approached it and touched its maw. She made a fist, and sundered the being, ripping the spirit out of it. 

The spirit sat on the ground, curling around itself, and the monster died from its own wounds. The spirit’s essence was shifting. Failing. It was dying.

The spirit looked at Mythal. “Forgive me. I had no choice. I was bound.”

Mythal knelt on the ground and touched the spirit. “Who did this to you?”

“One of the People. Far to the south.” The spirit wavered, dimmed. “She takes my kind. Puts us in her creations. I didn’t know. There are countless more bound creatures like what I was.”

“What is your nature, little one?”

“Faith is what I was,” and it died.

Mythal remained there for a second before whispering something to Lorethan. The latter departed and joined the Sentinels in putting out the fires. Mythal stood and approached him, a skeptical look on her face.

“I was unaware it was possible to take the form of a spirit.”

“I would not recommend it,” he said. “It is not a spirit. Not truly. It is something closer to an abomination.”

He looked around him. Most of the flames had died out from the rain and the sentinels’ magic, but his village was mostly a smoldering ruin. And the smell of charred flesh would not escape his mind. He dug his fingers into the dirt and cried in front of a supposed god.

A hand touched him and he jerked back. But it was Wisdom. It embraced him, and he wept. He wrapped his arms around it and sobbed.

“Sorrow,” Mythal said and he looked.

Sorrow stood there, his clothes bloodied and arm burnt. The man looked down at him.

“The Elder is dead.”

He wiped his eyes. “How many people got out in time?”

“Fifty-percent. At most. The rest,” he muttered and gestured around them. “We are looking for survivors now.”

“I suppose that makes you the Elder now, Sorrow.”

No response. He looked at Mythal. “The village is yours. Do as you will with it.”

She nodded and Sorrow walked to him, holding out a hand. He took it and he was pulled up to his feet. He pressed his hand against his flesh, properly sealing the wounds.

He had never seen Sorrow look so exhausted before.

“We lost everything,” Sorrow said.

“We are still alive, at least,” Wisdom murmured.

“What does it matter when most people we know have just died?!” Sorrow snapped, and rubbed his forehead. “Perhaps it would be best if I just went to sleep.”

He made no response.

“Why not join me?”

They looked to Mythal when she spoke.

“You would not be slaves. You will work for me.”

Sorrow hesitated. “What kind of work would I be doing?”

“Depends on what you are capable of. Leader of the guard meant you had to be decent at fighting.”

Sorrow gave no immediate answer.

“Yes,” Wisdom said. “This place will offer me nothing now.”

“And you, Pride? A man with the ability to shapeshift into a spirit would make a remarkable ally.”

He looked up to Mythal and sneered. “You think I would work for a false-god?”

She made no response, and he looked to the ground.

“I offer because I would feel cruel for not offering after you lost everything.”

He stared at the village around him, and it was too much. It was too much. He moved to step away, out of the village, and Mythal nodded at him.

“I understand. You know how to find me, should you change your mind” she said.

He nodded, and shifted into a small wolf, fleeing from the village.

**Author's Note:**

> . . . Would anyone be willing to be beta-readers?


End file.
